


Fight This War Without Weapons

by beckettemory



Series: Sticks and Stones [3]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Disability, Doctors & Physicians, Eliot Wonders Why Everyone Keeps Thinking That, Everyone Thinks Eliot Is Going To Die, Families of Choice, Found Family, Injury, Other, Post-Canon, Queerplatonic Relationships, autistic characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 09:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7971805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckettemory/pseuds/beckettemory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot never expected to make it to thirty, so he didn't take very good care of himself and he definitely didn't get his injuries treated. So when, after Nate and Sophie left the crew, Eliot started feeling rundown and in considerable pain at the end of every day, a (kind of) boyfriend insisted he see a doctor. A real one, not Nate in a lab coat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight This War Without Weapons

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for basically every kind of injury you can imagine (nothing graphic, just discussions after the fact), medication, doctors, food, alcohol, discussions of death and dying, murderous thoughts;  
> mentions of suicidal thoughts, sex stuff (nothing graphic), needles, blood;  
> references towards the end to child/adolescent sexual abuse (nothing graphic, just insinuated by a mark) 
> 
> spoilers for the end of season 5

Eliot hurt.

He was hurting all the time now. It didn’t matter if he’d been in a fight in the last few days, invariably, if he was conscious (and sometimes when he wasn’t) he was in pain in some way or another. Usually it was whatever body part he’d injured badly most recently, but sometimes it was a muscle ache from any of his past gunshot wounds or a pounding headache or an ache so deep and heavy in his hands he couldn't move them.

He could work through pain just fine, and he had a high pain threshold to begin with, so his condition didn’t affect their cons. Maybe he was running slower or took a couple extra seconds to knock a Russian mobster out cold, but the results were the same. So if it were up to him, he would have kept going until he keeled over, preferably at the end of a con after a truly stunning display of bravery and skill, taking down an unprecedented number of opponents unarmed and sustaining a fatal injury that still allowed him to say his goodbyes to his team and tell them to take care of his dog.

It wasn’t up to him, though, so it didn’t matter how he thought he’d die, _Hardison_ , shut up.

He was dating a man, Matthew, who was a doctor. Well, a resident. But he’d be a fully-fledged doctor in under a year if everything went according to plan. Well, they weren’t really dating anymore. They weren’t ever _really_ dating.

One night, after... _things,_ Eliot lay in bed, his brain fighting to fall asleep and his body burning in pain. He pressed his hands to his eyes and groaned until it made his head hurt more and his wrists felt like they’d shatter from just that much force.

Matthew rolled over to face him, having dozed off a little in his afterglow, and rubbed Eliot’s chest soothingly and Eliot winced.

“What’s wrong, Tommy?” he asked, drawing up onto an elbow. Eliot was caught slightly off guard by the name he used--he had forgotten for a few minutes that Matthew knew him as Thomas Stearns.

“Nothing, I just…” Eliot deliberated before continuing, having to remind himself how much Matthew knew about him and then decide how open he wanted to be. “Just an old injury giving me trouble.”

Matthew sat up, pulling Eliot’s hands away from his eyes with steady hands. “Where?”

Eliot deliberated. _Everywhere_ , he wanted to say.

Before he had time to answer, Matthew flicked on the lamp on his side of the bed. Eliot tensed, having for the most part tried to avoid being naked around his paramours in the light for the last several years.

Matthew sucked in a breath and traced with feather-light touches the scars on his torso and upper arms.

“Jesus Christ, Thomas, what happened?”

Eliot couldn’t look at him. “I was in the army before I became a chef,” he said, and it wasn’t entirely a lie. He just wasn’t actually a chef.

Matthew blinked. “Oh. _Oh._ ”

He became very attentive after that, poking joint after joint and scar after scar.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen a doctor?” he asked, and Eliot smirked.

“I’m seein’ one right now.”

Matthew rolled his eyes. “I meant for a physical.”

He shrugged. It had probably been upwards of five years. Maybe even not since the last time he had done government work abroad. There was the time or two Nate or Sophie played a doctor during a con, but those didn’t really count, he guessed.

“Well, however long it’s been, this shoulder didn’t heal properly. It was dislocated, right?” Matthew said, having grabbed Eliot’s arm and started moving it to test his joints.

“Probably.”

Matthew stopped and looked very serious. “Did you go to the doctor after _any_ of these injuries?”

Eliot frowned. “‘Course. That gunshot wound and this stab wound and my knee dislocating--I got treatment for all those in… Somalia.” He hoped Matthew didn’t hear his hesitation--he’d gotten too far into the sentence before starting to think of an acceptable lie.

“But… The rest of these--how many of them happened after you left the Army?”

Eliot stiffened. “I can’t tell you that, hon.”

Matthew stared at him until he sighed and explained, lying out of habit.

“I’m not, technically, _out_. I still go on ops sometimes. And I fight in my free time. Kickboxing, mostly, MMA. So a few injuries since then.”

“And you got treatment for…?”

“...almost none of them,” Eliot finished sheepishly.

They weren’t together anymore, but Matthew had sternly insisted Eliot get a physical after that night, and when he had stubbornly refused, Matthew had made him a deal. He had a friend--an old professor who had a private practice there in Portland, just her and a physician’s assistant and a couple nurses--who would probably do him a favor and give Eliot a detailed checkup with x-rays and bloodwork, all in one day and with complete discretion.

“It might be… pricey, though,” Matthew said a few days later.

Eliot just laughed. “That’s not a problem.”

Matthew sighed, his annoyance at Eliot’s emotional distance flaring again. He had been grumbling on their last date about how Thomas/Eliot was a private person and that was _fine_ but also he was _trying_ and it was like Thomas/Eliot wasn’t. If Eliot was being honest with himself, and he usually was, he knew that he didn’t really want it to work out between him and Matthew, because as handsome as Matthew was, he was a little spoiled and a little bit of a goody-two-shoes. _If_ they stayed together, and that was a big if, eventually Eliot would have to tell him what he really did, and there’s no way Matthew would be okay with that.

They’d met because the team had run a con on the hospital’s CEO and Eliot had posed as the new head chef, and had personally delivered meals to each wing once during the first week of their con. Matthew had been checking in on a hernia repair patient when Eliot came in, and they’d hit it off. Two weeks after that, the CEO had stepped down amidst widespread rumors about his finances turning out to be true, and in the staff overhaul that ensued, “Thomas” had been “fired”.

If Matthew found out that it was Eliot who was in part responsible for his pay cut _and_ that they had met under false pretenses, he would probably call the cops.

So they parted amicably, with Eliot’s reluctant promise that he’d see Matt’s doctor friend hanging in the air and his secrets kept firmly under wraps.

On the day before his appointment with Dr. Willard, he leaned back in his chair in the briefing room while he went through hidden camera footage and rubbed absentmindedly at his knee, the one that always gave him trouble. Pretty much since he’d injured it for the first time it had been able to predict the weather, aching when the weather was about to change drastically or before it rained, which was nearly constantly in Portland.

“Want a heat pack?” Parker asked from where she suddenly crouched on the stairs, bowl of cereal in hand.

“Got anything bigger?” he asked in answer, and by the time he looked up she was gone as silently as she’d come.

A minute later something big and fluffy was thrown on him and when he wrestled it off of his head Parker was back exactly where she had been before, cereal still in hand like she hadn’t moved at all.

He held the soft fabric between his hands and frowned at her. “A blanket?”

“It’s electric,” she said with a mouthful of cheerios. “Gets as warm as a heat pack.”

He shrugged and got up to lay on the couch instead, and he was sure the creaking he felt in his bones was actually audible. He groaned as he sank onto the soft leather and arranged the blanket over his legs, found the switch, and turned it on.

“My knee does that sometimes,” Parker said, suddenly perched on the arm of the sofa above his head. Eliot narrowly avoided flinching despite not having heard her moving.

“Does what?” he asked.

“Gets all creaky and hurty,” she said, eyes still glued to the screen. “You know, from when I tore my ACL.”

He hummed in acknowledgement.

“What’d’ya do to yours?” she asked around a mouthful of cereal.

“Hurt it a couple times. The first time was in Tehran when I was working for Moreau.” He held up his hands and demonstrated the injury. “Stepped in a hole during a chase and kkhhhk! Couldn’t walk for a week. Almost got captured.”

“But like, what happened to it?”

He shrugged. “Never found out.”

“Good thing you didn’t know Hardison or Nate or Sophie back then. They’d’ve made you go to the doctor.”

The blanket was beginning to heat up and he sighed inwardly as the heat soothed a little of the ache in his knee and ankles.

“I’m going tomorrow,” he said, and he felt her looking at him.

“How come?”

“Matthew’s making me.”

She slid down the arm of the sofa, pushing him with her knees until she sat behind him, pulling the pillow he’d been resting on out from under his head. He rearranged until he lay comfortably in her lap and she picked a piece of lint off his hair.

“He’s the doctor, right? From the Same Hat job? I thought you guys broke up?”

He made a face. “Yeah.”

They were quiet for a few minutes, watching the hidden camera footage.

“You want a ride tomorrow?” Parker asked after she sat her empty bowl aside.

“I was gonna drive.”

Parker shook her head. “But what if you’re all loopy?”

He snorted. “I won’t be. But you can drive me if you really want to.”

“Oh, I was going to make Hardison do it,” she said.

“Yeah, he’s a better driver, anyway,” he said, fully anticipating the sharp tug at his hair that came next.

Bright and early the next morning Eliot awoke and went through his morning routine--feed the dog, water the garden, make a nice breakfast, sit on the couch and eat while reading, get dressed, fix his hair, and be ready to go at least ten minutes early. When Hardison pulled up outside his house he was leaning against the frame of the front door, coffee in one hand, his dog’s big nose demanding attention from his free hand. He swiftly put her out back and dumped the dregs of his coffee in the sink before heading out the door.

“You’re not bringing Bate with us?” Hardison asked when he slid into the passenger seat of Lucille.

“Her name isn’t Bate. That’s a stupid name for a dog,” Eliot growled. “It’s Beate.”

“That’s what I said. Bate,” Hardison repeated.

“Bay-ah-tuh,” Eliot said slowly, annoyance rising hot and quick in his chest. “It’s German.”

“Your face is German,” Hardison muttered as he put the van in gear.

“I’m German,” Parker said from the back of the van, and they both jumped. Hardison swerved a little and nearly hit a mailbox.

“Jesus!--Parker! What the _hell?"_  Hardison shrieked.

“You didn’t know she was back there?” Eliot asked.

“I didn’t-- _no_ , I didn’t know she was back there. It’s _Parker_. What the hell you doin’, stowin’ away in people’s cars--don’t do that.”

Parker giggled, and Eliot found himself deeply unsettled by the sound.

“Why'd you tag along anyway? Thought you were gonna make Hardison drive me,” Eliot said, turning his head to see Parker’s mere inches from his own, sticking through the curtain that separated the cab from the back.

She shrugged. “There was nothing else to do today. And I _did_ make him drive, look at him, he’s driving.”

“Y’all are making me want to stop driving, is what you’re doing,” Hardison muttered to the steering wheel. “Making me drive… I can’t just do something nice for my good friend Eliot and drive him to the doctor, no, they have to _make_ me drive…”

Eliot snickered and leaned back in his seat. Maybe today wouldn’t be too bad.

 

* * *

 

It _was_ bad.

Dr. Willard was nice and all, and her nurse was cute, and Eliot was the only one with appointments that day so he didn’t have to do a lot of waiting, but he did spend nearly the entire day getting poked and prodded.

Dr. Willard drew blood and tested his reflexes, checked him for concussions and got urine samples, gave him an eye test and poked at him with pins to check for neurological conditions, made him blow into tubes and checked his hearing, listened to his heart and asked him probably hundreds of questions. He got x-rays taken of his whole body and was sent next door for an MRI of his brain. She hooked him up to a bunch of monitors and made him run on a treadmill for half an hour and she made him move every joint it was physically possible to move while she felt the muscles around them and watched the way they moved.

Through it all she took countless notes and chatted with him, and he did his best to lie about his injuries enough to keep his secrets but tell enough truth that he wasn’t just outright lying about how and when he got shot through the thigh.

At 3:45 in the afternoon, after they finally finished the last exam, she sent him to wait for a little bit in the waiting room with his friends while she and her staff compiled all the test results and interpreted them.

When he went into the small waiting room he saw Parker and Hardison each with a little nest set up over the course of the day--Parker had a blanket and a laptop, and fiddled with a handful of locks and picks while she huddled under her blanket and watched Netflix; Hardison had probably a hundred papers spread out on a table that usually held outdated magazines and the floor around him, and was typing furiously with his headphones on. Parker had a gallon sized plastic bag of mixed cereals and Hardison had a couple big bottles of orange soda, and they were evidently sharing.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Eliot said. Both Parker and Hardison took their headphones off.

“Yeah, we did,” Hardison said without looking up from his laptop.

Eliot sat heavily between them, exhausted and in pain. His head pounded and he felt sick to his stomach, and all of his joints that ever gave him trouble ached, as did each of his more severe scars.

“You don’t look too good,” Parker observed.

“Really? I’m having the time of my life,” he deadpanned.

“You figure out what’s going on?” Hardison asked.

Eliot groaned and sank lower in the uncomfortable chair. Both of them had opted to sit on the floor. “Not yet.”

They left him alone, Hardison sensing Eliot needed some quiet and shooting an instant message to Parker telling her that. The three of them looked out for each other like that, picking up social cues the others might not and filling them in.

Eliot actually dozed off a little until Isabella, the cute nurse, came to get him an hour later.

In the exam room she led him to he sat in the chair next to the door, the one intended for spouses or caregivers, and it was nearly as uncomfortable as the one in the waiting room.

Dr. Willard sat opposite him at the counter, tapping at a tablet in her hands. At her side was a stack of papers fully half an inch thick and a large envelope that presumably held his x-rays.

“Aaaalllllright,” Dr. Willard said as she tapped at her tablet a couple more times. “You ready for the verdict, Thomas?”

He smiled nervously. “I guess?”

“You’re not dying,” she said, and he felt relieved, even though he hadn’t thought he was dying.

“However,” she said, laying her hand on the stack of papers next to her, “you’ve got a lot going on.”

She walked him through the diagnoses, which included: multiple concussions over several years; repeated stress fractures in his skull, hands, wrists, feet, ankles, and lower legs; the beginnings of osteoarthritis in his hands, fingers, wrists, and spine; seasonal allergies; mostly healed ligament tears in both his knees; mostly healed fractures in several ribs and most bones of his lower body; slight hearing loss from hearing gunshots and explosions; mostly healed dislocations in most of his joints; bullet fragments in his shoulder and thigh; many healed gunshots, stab wounds, and burns; nerve damage in a lot of his body; and a slight vitamin D deficiency.

As she went through all this she put up his x-rays and MRIs on the lightboard and showed him the areas of concern. She also had printed out factsheets about several of his conditions, and she gave the entire stack to him to peruse later and keep for his records.

Dr. Willard then proceeded to write him prescriptions for various medications--for pain, for sleep, for allergies--and suggest that he see a psychiatrist, because she suspected he had post-traumatic stress disorder. She handed him samples of each of his new medications, just a few to tide him over until he could get them filled, because the pharmacies near his house probably closed soon.

“I’d also _like_ you to undergo a sleep study and be evaluated by an orthopedic surgeon for your knee, but that’s up to you,” she said.

He took in all of the new information without comment except where she asked for verification of his family history or background, and a couple times to ask questions about the conditions he hadn’t heard of before, and to inform her that he already had a diagnosis of PTSD.

“The Army really did a number on you,” Dr. Willard said with a sympathetic smile once she was done. Eliot chuckled and nodded, sticking to his fabricated backstory.

She recommended taking it easy from here on out, and turned him loose, telling him to call her if he had any problems with the medication or anything else, and said that the bill would be in the mail.

As he climbed back into Hardison’s car he told himself firmly not to think about everything for at least 24 hours, and had them drop him back by his house.

“You’re not dying on us, are you?” Hardison asked as he got out. Eliot had been quiet the whole way home, partially because he was exhausted and in pain and partially because he knew that his partners were longing to ask him about it and he didn’t want to talk yet.

Eliot stopped with his hand on the door lever. “No, I’m not dying anytime soon,” he reassured them, and continued getting out.

“Is he lying?” he heard Parker ask Hardison quietly, and smiled tiredly.

“No, I don’t think so,” Hardison responded at a whisper. “Just, you know, man,” he started at his normal volume, “anytime you want to talk about it…”

Eliot paused just before closing the door. “Thanks, guys. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Be sure to bring that one shirt with the stripes!” Parker called as he closed the door and headed inside.

He fixed something quick for dinner, heating up leftovers and pouring some sweet tea from the pitcher in the fridge. He ate as quickly as he dared with his still slightly queasy stomach and fed Beate, then changed out of his clothes and crawled into bed.

It was only seven-thirty, so even though he was exhausted physically and mentally, he couldn’t fall asleep. He had enough trouble falling asleep in the middle of the night most of the time, and that was without several new diagnoses whirling through his mind keeping him up. He tamped down as many thoughts as he could, and tried his various meditation techniques to relax and clear his mind. He wished he felt well enough to cook, or ride his horse, or punch something, because those things usually cleared his mind, but he didn’t feel at that moment like he could even get out of bed.

He thought of Hardison and Parker and felt warmth spread in his chest. His partners. That was the only way they could describe what they had together, because Parker was aromantic and Hardison was asexual and Eliot was, well, neither, and Eliot didn’t have romantic or sexual feelings for either of them, and they didn’t want to date him or each other, but the three of them were close, closer than friends or even best friends, and anyway, it was _different_ , and Eliot still dated other people, and Hardison still dated other people, and Parker still slept with other people, and they liked the ambiguity of “partners” because people never knew whether they meant “business partner” or “partner partner” or maybe “partner in crime”.

They’d started doing this, whatever this thing was, six months ago, not terribly long after Nate and Sophie left on their grand adventure around the world, a pre-honeymoon. The shmoopiness of it all made Eliot want to gag, but he was happy for them. Afterwards, when the three of them were well and truly left alone to continue Leverage Consulting, Inc., they’d begun hanging out more, just watching movies or playing video games in between bursts of productivity in preparation for a con, and separately all three had begun to recognize the feelings for each other for what they were: confusing as hell.

Now Nate and Sophie were back, if only for a couple months until the wedding was over and they took off on their actual honeymoon, and only in a limited consulting capacity where Leverage was concerned, and Sophie had known exactly what they were talking about when they’d told her, and Nate had been confused, like Hardison had said, “the three of us are stuffed walruses now,” instead of, “the three of us are in a weird queerplatonic partnership deal now.” The next time Sophie and Nate had come to the brew pub for dinner, courtesy of Eliot, with Parker as his sous-chef and Hardison as his sommelier, Nate had looked a lot less confused and a lot less weirded out, meaning Sophie had probably sat him down and lectured him about queerplatonic relationships and the ones she’d had and the way they worked.

Parker and Hardison lived together above the pub, because it had high ceilings like Parker liked and Hardison liked to be close to his brews, and they both forgot to eat on occasion but could usually manage two meals a day because eventually one or the other would remember that food was a thing that needed to happen, and then remind the other. The nature of their jobs in the crew also meant that if anyone was going to work around the clock in preparation for a con, it was those two, and they both liked quiet, unobtrusive company while they worked. Eliot lived in his little country house outside Portland, because he didn’t want to give up his horses, and he brought dates home more often than either of the others, and he was still terrified of living in close proximity of them, because _what if_ , comma, any of several self-deprecating or post-traumatic hypothetical situations. And anyway, Beate and the horses needed a yard and Parker had something against Beate's shed fur getting on her clothes. So, for the time being, he stayed in the country. And during cons, when they were in or near Portland, he stayed at the brew pub with them (he’d sold his apartment in the city after he told them about his country house) and Cody, his farmhand and protege, took care of his house and horses and Beate.

He lay awake for nearly an hour, thinking about his partners to avoid thinking about anything else, hands pressed to his eyes, his dog still playing with her tennis ball in the next room. Then a ping from his bedside table finally made him move, roll over and reach a stiff hand out to grab his phone.

It was a text from Parker.

_Take your pills. They really do help._

How Parker knew that he hadn’t taken them, or that he had gotten medication at all, was beyond him, but it was Parker, so he wasn’t terribly surprised. He knew that Parker had as much trouble as he did taking medication, if not more, so for this to come from her…

He grumbled to himself and groaned as he rolled out of bed painfully and limped to the kitchen, his knees having gotten stiffer in the last hour of downtime. He eyed the stack of papers Dr. Willard had given him, with his alias typed at the top of some of the pages, sitting next to the small bottles and boxes of pills. There were four medications there, and he examined them before shaking out one dose of the allergy medication, one dose of the sleep aid, and one dose of the stronger pain medication. He decided that he’d start taking the lower-level everyday-maintenance pain medication after their next con, when he had at least a few days of downtime to get used to them and see whether they helped or slowed him down even more.

He looked down at the three pills he held, and took a deep breath before tossing them back and chasing them down with a long drink of water.

For the first time since Eliot moved to this house a year and a half ago, he wished he owned a television, so he could turn on something mindless while he waited for the medications to take effect. He debated with himself for a long moment, then gave in and grabbed the stack of papers from Dr. Willard and trudged to the couch in the living room.

He perused the factsheets in the stack of paper, paying special attention to the prognosis sections of each individual packet. He found himself being comforted by the sheets saying the prognoses were positive, and that was surprising. He had long been at peace with the idea of dying young, and now with that prospect looming ever closer in his mind, he was suddenly afraid of dying before he’d gotten to do everything he wanted to do, and he found, suddenly, that there were things he wanted to do and see before he died. He hadn’t had anything remotely resembling a bucket list since high school, maybe even earlier.

While the packets were unanimously positive towards his survival, their attitudes towards strenuous physical activity were other matters entirely, and that scared him, so he tried not to think about that.

By the time he got to the thin packet about vitamin D deficiency, he was floating. Most of his pain had leeched away and left him feeling like he could be carried away by a light breeze. He was somewhat familiar with this feeling, having been injured many times in his life and having on some of those occasions received medical attention.

Shortly thereafter his limbs and eyelids started to feel heavy. It was an odd sensation combined with the floating feeling. He stood carefully and took a few steps, moving slowly so he didn’t lose his balance, and turned off the lights in the kitchen and living room. As he walked back to his bedroom he called Beate, and she trotted in after him obediently. He lay down and Beate climbed up next to him, laying her big scruffy head on his chest and licking his chin when he scratched her behind the ears. He was asleep within minutes, and the time before he fell asleep was blissfully thought-free.

 

* * *

 

Eliot woke up the next morning stiff and in a little pain, but relatively well-rested, and thus got a good start to their con. Four days later, they were done, and he started taking the other pain medication Dr. Willard had prescribed him. It didn’t work, at least not that day, but the good doctor had warned him that it would take a few days to build up in his system.

He still hadn’t talked to Parker and Hardison about his appointment, and Parker had begun hinting at it when he was around, but not outright asking anything. He wasn’t sure when he would bring it up; he wanted to figure something out first. And he needed help deciding, but he knew that Parker and Hardison wouldn’t be the best choices. Not for this conversation.

So he ended up on Nate and Sophie’s doorstep six days after his appointment, at war with himself for ten minutes before finally raising his hand to knock on the door.

Sophie opened the door before he could make contact, and didn’t look surprised to see him.

“Security cameras,” she said, answering his unspoken question and pointing to the corner behind him, and sure enough there was a small, unobtrusive camera in the air vent in the hallway.

They went inside and Eliot saw Nate lounging on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in his lap and an old western on the television.

“Hey, El,” Nate said, raising his hand in greeting. “To what do we owe the honor?” Sophie joined him on the couch and Eliot nervously took a seat nearby.

“Wanted to, uh, talk to you guys about something. I haven’t told Parker or Hardison yet.”

Sophie, who had been watching Eliot since he came in, leaned over and took the remote from Nate, then clicked off the movie.

Eliot took a second to gather his words, staring at his hands and starting to talk several times. Nate and Sophie just waited; having three autistic people on their team for five years had given them patience when words just weren’t flowing.

“I went to the doctor recently and--”

“Oh god, you’re dying, aren’t you?” Sophie exclaimed, tears already in her eyes. Nate put a steady hand on her knee even as his eyes betrayed the same emotions Sophie hadn’t been able to suppress.

“No! Jesus. Why does everyone keep thinking that?” Eliot asked, and Sophie nodded, sniffling once and then collecting herself.

“What did the doctor say?” Nate asked, his voice carefully neutral, but if Eliot could see through it, Sophie could too by a mile.

Eliot huffed out a laugh. “Might be easier to tell you what she _didn’t_ say.”

Nate cocked an eyebrow. “You’re sick?”

Eliot made a wiggly hand gesture. “Kinda. I’ve got, well, let’s see.” He started counting on his fingers as he listed off his diagnoses. “I already had the PTSD and autism diagnoses, but this doctor--I was the only one to see her all day, that’s how long it took to give me a complete workup--she added arthritis in my hands and back and a bunch of concussions and--you know my bum knee? Turns out I dislocated it _and_ tore a ligament when I hurt it bad in Tehran, and it never healed right. I’ve got a bunch of partially healed fractures, pretty much everywhere, and scar tissue buildup all over the place, too. Bullet fragments everywhere. And one of those times I got shot it broke a rib and never really healed, so there’s that.”

Sophie had covered her mouth when he started adding to his list, and Nate sat there in stony silence, hands clasped and elbows resting on his knees, eyes tight with some emotion Eliot couldn’t place.

“Are you in pain?” Sophie asked behind her fingers.

“Yeah. All the time.” He tried to give a grim smile to sound less depressing, but his facial muscles wouldn’t move.

“And you’re thinking about leaving the crew,” Nate guessed.

Eliot dropped his gaze to his hands. “I don’t think I can keep doing this,” he muttered.

Nate blew out a breath and rearranged himself. “Well,” he said, and Eliot waited for him to continue, but he looked lost in thought.

“I, uh. Haven't been taking such good care of myself,” Eliot said. “I always figured I'd die young, before I had the chance to develop all this.”

“You've had a good run with us,” Nate said, the gears in his head still turning.

“What would you do if you left?” Sophie asked, having collected herself for the most part and returned to her usual motherly self.

Eliot shrugged. “Catering, maybe. Write a cookbook or something. I probably couldn't keep up in a restaurant kitchen like this and I don't think I could just retire.” He smiled a little at the thought of spending his days just caring for his horses, gardening, and reading. He couldn't think of anything more boring than that. He’d lose it in a week and a half.

“But you're not tired of running jobs,” Nate said, and it almost sounded like a question.

“Nah.”

“And everything's okay between you and Parker and Hardison.” Another almost-question.

“‘Course,” Eliot said.

“So do you want to quit Leverage or quit being a hitter?” Nate asked.

Eliot blinked. That had honestly never occurred to him, that he could be part of the crew without being expected to hit people during every job.

“You’re already a brilliant grifter,” Sophie said quietly, and Eliot blinked at her, still trying to process that he could be something other than the brawn. It was a novel concept, and one he wasn't completely opposed to. Something was bothering him, though.

“Then who’d keep them safe?” he asked.

Sophie smiled. “Have you seen Parker fight lately? She can fight almost as well as you. Different, of course, but nearly as effectively. And Hardison can at least defend himself.”

“You've taught them a lot,” Nate said, and Eliot didn't quite believe him, until he remembered the last time he cooked for Parker and she smiled and commented on the food as she ate, and the last time Hardison had a panic attack and Eliot needed only to remind him that he could meditate to calm down and to guide him through the first minute or two of breathing and Hardison was calm in ten minutes all by himself.

“And maybe you still need to kick the shit out of people on occasion,” Sophie said, leaning forward. “Then, you get your partners to _help_ you, and you wear a knee brace.”

Eliot smiled weakly, and started to believe that maybe the world wouldn't end if he stayed a criminal and just stopped being a hitter.

“They're safer when you’re with them than when you're not,” Nate pointed out.

“You have enough self-preservation for all three of you,” Sophie laughed.

Eliot nodded. “And the list of cons they could do with two people is a hell of a lot shorter than the ones we could do with three,” he added.

“I can teach you more,” Sophie offered. “There's loads you've probably never heard of. And I could coach you if you wanted.”

Eliot nodded. “I think… I think I'm gonna do it.”

“You're staying?” Sophie asked, beaming.

“If they'll have me,” he said.

“They will,” Nate said confidently.

Eliot sighed. “Thanks, guys. I owe you one.”

Sophie nudged Nate, who looked at her, puzzled, for a moment before his eyebrows shot up.

“Oh! Right. We’ve been doing some wedding planning,” he started, and Eliot groaned.

“Yeah, I can cater it,” he said.

“No!” Sophie exclaimed, and Eliot’s brow furrowed.

“No, not the catering, I mean, unless you want to. No, I, um.” He paused until Sophie nudged him again. “I want you to be my best man.”

Eliot blinked. “Oh. Wow.” He chuckled nervously. “I’ve never been a best man. I've only been in one wedding ever. Not counting the Moscone job.”

Sophie leaned forward, intrigued. “Whose was it?”

“My sister Marie. I was a groomsman.”

Sophie’s eyebrows shot up and she smiled. “I didn't know you had a sister.”

Pain spiked through him, for once not bodily. “I had two. Just one now,” he muttered, looking down.

“Oh,” Sophie breathed. “I'm so sorry, Eliot. I shouldn't have brought it up.”

“No, it's.” He took a deep breath and looked at Nate, extending a hand. “I'll do it. Thanks, man.”

Nate smiled and shook his hand. “Thank you, Eliot.”

Eliot stood. “Well, I should get out of y’all’s hair.”

Sophie popped up. “Absolutely not,” she said in her most authoritative voice. “You're staying for dinner.” Eliot grinned and followed her to the kitchen.

“Uh, dear,” Nate called, still sitting on the sofa. “I thought we were just having leftovers?”

Sophie beamed at Eliot as he opened the fridge and started taking stock of their ingredients.

“Not anymore,” Eliot called to Nate.

 

* * *

 

Eliot drove back home after finally escaping from Sophie after dinner and drinks. Nate gave him a sympathetic look every time he tried to casually end the conversation and leave, and finally Eliot had to feign back pain and fatigue so Sophie would let him go. On his way out, though, she roped him into dinner the following week, and over her shoulder he could see Nate snickering quietly.

As he drove up his street (really more of a country road than anything) he saw a black van hidden behind some trees a hundred yards from his property line. He rolled his eyes and pulled into his driveway.

He opened the front door and was greeted by Beate. He peered around his living room but didn’t see anyone. He took off his shoes by the door and padded into the kitchen in his socks. Nothing. He went to his bedroom and flicked on the light. Nothing. He groaned inwardly as he looked in his gym and bathroom, and saw no one. Finally he pulled open his closet door and saw Hardison sitting on top of one dresser with his laptop and Parker standing on another, peering into an air vent.

Beate followed Eliot into his bedroom and evidently had no clue there were visitors in the house, because she looked startled when he opened the door and let out a surprised bark.

“I don’t need any beauty products,” Eliot said, and Hardison grinned.

“How’d you know we were here?” Parker asked suspiciously, hopping down from the dresser and landing inches from Eliot, then eyeing Beate as though she’d let it slip.

Eliot gestured in the general direction of the van. “You really thought a couple trees would keep me from seeing your car?”

Hardison’s grin vanished and was replaced by incredulity. “It’s _midnight_ and we’re too far from the city for light pollution. You can see every single star in the galaxy from your backyard, El, and it’s a black van. _Normal_ people wouldn’t see it.”

Eliot walked back to his living room, trusting them to follow. “Yeah? Well I ain’t normal.” He flopped down onto the couch and put his feet up as they joined him. Parker perched on the back of the couch near his feet and Hardison sat on the floor in front of the couch.

“Where were you?” Parker asked.

“Dinner with Nate and Sophie,” Eliot replied, fully anticipating Parker’s frown.

“How come we weren’t invited?” she asked.

Eliot sighed. “Because I just went by to talk to them about something and Sophie made me stay for dinner.”

Parker nodded knowingly, having been on the receiving end of Sophie’s hospitality several times, but Hardison looked serious.

“You talk to them about your appointment the other day?” he asked, and Eliot sighed and sat up, scrubbing a hand over his face. He really didn’t want to do this tonight, but he couldn’t very well avoid it now.

“Yeah, I did.”

All three of them were quiet for a few long seconds, and then Parker slid down the back of the couch to sit next to him and lay her head on his shoulder.

“You never told us what the doctor said,” she reminded him.

“And-and you don’t _have_ to,” Hardison amended, eyeing her with a ‘what the hell?’ look and putting his hand out in a sort of placating gesture.

Eliot groaned. “I do, because it affects y’all, and the team,” he said, and under the weight of Hardison’s heavy stare he felt about two inches tall, even though he had averted his eyes. He could _feel_ it, though, and that was bad enough.

“You’re not leaving,” Parker said, and it might have originally been meant as a question, but she said it decisively. Eliot started a little at that, because Parker had no idea what he was going to say and had shut him down before he even started. 

Eliot shoved off the couch and stalked across the room. He heard Hardison make a frustrated noise and he ignored it, grabbing the stack of info packets from Dr. Willard from the dining table. He went back and plunked the papers on the coffee table.

“ _T_ _his_ is what the doctor said.” He thunked the stack for emphasis. He was heating up now, frustration at his situation leaking into his voice and his mannerisms.

Hardison and Parker were silent. Eliot started going through the pages, tossing each stapled packet aside as he said their titles.

“Scar tissue buildup. Concussion syndrome, comma, minor. Stress fractures. Vitamin D deficiency. Nerve damage. Osteoarthritis. Post traumatic stress disorder. Unhealed bone fractures. Ligament tears. Fucking _bullet fragments_.”

As he shoved the last packet aside he slumped back and covered his face with his hands. His eyes stung and he bit back a sob, and the fact that he was so close to _crying_ just made him angrier.

He was the stable one. He was the one who could _always_ be depended upon to get the job done without letting messy emotions get in the way. Hardison had his anxiety and Parker had her freakouts and both of them had their meltdowns and Nate and Sophie had their pasts getting in the way and in the heat of things Eliot had only one thing and that was _focus_.

Except now that focus wouldn’t get him anywhere, because he wouldn’t be able to just turn off his brain and let his body and instincts take over anymore. Now he was a grifter and that meant he always needed to be present and calculating and in tune with his emotions instead of just shutting them off or letting anger take the reins.

He wouldn’t get anywhere in a scam if he just started crying every time he had to talk his way out of a bind instead of punching his way out. His career shift would put him and his partners in even greater jeopardy than usual.

His partners had sat in stunned silence during his outburst and were now stock still, judging by how Parker was sitting very stiffly at his side, and he guessed that they were having some sort of silent conversation about him. He felt something warm and soft press against his leg, and felt Beate lay her big head on his lap.

“A-at least the concussion syndrome is minor,” Hardison offered, and Eliot gritted his teeth. 

“Hardison, I swear to _God_ ,” he growled, and he absolutely hated himself for how thick his voice sounded.

They were silent for another long minute, and then Parker patted his knee.

“Hey.”

When he didn’t respond, she did it again.

“ _Hey_.”

He grudgingly moved his hands from his face and was disappointed with himself when he discovered that his palms and cheeks were wet. Hardison was eyeing him somewhat nervously from the floor, and Parker’s face was unreadable.

“We don’t care,” she said, and Hardison looked alarmed and reached out to stop her, but she put up a ‘wait a minute’ finger without looking at him and kept going.

“We don’t care if you’re sick. You aren't dead, though, so you can still be part of this crew. We aren’t going to tell you to stay if you don’t want to, but just because you’re sick doesn’t mean you _have_ to go. No, hold on,” she told Hardison, who was trying to interrupt her again. She fixed Eliot with a stare. “I don’t want you to leave, and I’m pretty sure Hardison doesn’t either.”

“Woman, if you will let me _speak_ ,” Hardison interrupted. Parker conceded and he rolled his eyes. “Thank you. El, _neither_ of us wants you to leave the crew or us or anything, but we gotta talk about this.”

He moved to sit on the coffee table. “Now, what kind of treatment are we looking at?” 

Eliot cleared his throat and walked him through the treatment options for each of his new diagnoses, and he could see Hardison filing each option away in a mental spreadsheet to copy down later. As he talked he found his anger and frustration leeching away and a plan taking shape in his mind.

“Okay,” Hardison said when Eliot was done. Parker was absentmindedly petting Beate, who had evidently gotten over her surprise at finding them in the closet. “You’ve got a lot of options, and none of them mean a permanent leave of absence from the crew. I mean, like, it’s still your call and all, your body, but that’s our two cents.”

Eliot nodded and rubbed at his face. “I don’t want to leave,” he said, and Hardison looked relieved, but Parker narrowed her eyes.

“I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming,” she hissed to Hardison.

“No, no buts,” Eliot said. He cracked a smile. “I was never going to leave.”

Hardison threw up his hands. “You motherf--why’d you let us keep going, then?”

Eliot smirked and shrugged. “It was nice. Y’all care about me.”

“Look at that, it’s fading now.”

Eliot shook his head and sighed, his smirk dropping off his face. “I mean, I’m not really staying exactly how I was.”

Parker’s stillness was back, and he couldn’t look at her.

“That’s what I was talking to Sophie and Nate about. I’m going to, uh. Not be a hitter anymore.” He looked down at his hands, studying the calluses on his palms.

There was a long moment of silence.

Then Parker jumped out of her seat and pumped her fists in the air. Hardison and Eliot both recoiled and Beate scampered several yards away. “Yes!” She leaned down and grabbed Eliot’s face with both hands and pressed her forehead to his. “Thank you!”

“Uh. What?” he asked, voice muffled a little because her hands were squishing his cheeks together.

She happily pressed a loud kiss to his forehead and let him go and he scooted as far away as the couch would allow, mumbling under his breath.

“The only thing you could be if you weren’t a hitter is a grifter, which means _I_ don’t have to do it anymore!” she squealed.

“We can’t just have _one_ person doing _all_ of the grifting, Park, that’s not how it works,” Eliot protested, a little stung by the phrase ‘the only thing you could be’. 

Hardison clapped a hand down on his knee and shook his head. “It’s not worth it, El. She’ll figure it out.”

Eliot rolled his eyes and watched Parker pick up Beate’s front paws and dance around the living room with her. Beate’s tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth and she looked like she was having the time of her life, even if she didn’t quite know what was going on. 

Hardison watched, too, and at length he lost interest and nudged Eliot.

“Hey, man, does all that hurt?” he asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards the packets of paper strewn about the room.

Eliot nodded and readjusted, putting his feet back up on the couch and resting his hands behind his head. “My spine feels like it’s about to shatter into a million pieces right now,” he said, matter-of-fact. Hardison’s eyebrows shot up.

“Damn.”

“I take my meds about this time, though, so,” Eliot said, clicking his tongue and shrugging at the end.

Hardison checked the time on his phone and looked guilty. “It is getting late. For you,” he clarified. “We’re up ‘til like, four most nights,” he added, nodding to Parker, who finally let Beate go and joined them again.

“I didn’t sleep last night,” Parker said, resuming her perch on top of the couch.

“I didn’t either,” Hardison admitted after a pause. “I was making more aliases for us and forgot to stop.”

“I finished watching NCIS,” Parker said with a shrug. “All of it that’s on Netflix, anyway.”

Eliot eyed both of them and then hauled himself upright. He went to the kitchen and quickly took his meds, then went back to the couch and held out both his hands.

“Come on. Bed,” he commanded, and they both whined and kicked their feet a little before giving in.

A few minutes later he lay in the middle of his bed, with Parker curled up next to him and Hardison on his other side with his head on Eliot's shoulder and his hand on Eliot’s chest. Beate had tried to worm her way into the fray, but she was too big and now lay on her own bed near the door grumpily.

Eliot’s medication hadn’t kicked in yet, but just laying down in his warm bed was helping, and he started to drift off.

“Did Nate ask you to be his best man yet?” Parker asked sleepily.

“How’d you know about that?”

“Spied on them today,” she replied before burying her head under the covers.

Hardison patted his chest. “Why didn’t he ask me?”

Eliot grinned in the darkness, deciding to have some fun. “‘Member that day you didn’t show up for a job because you played Dungeons and Dragons all night and we ended up havin’ to crash land a plane on a bridge?”

“First off, it was World of Warcraft. And second, _I_ was the one who landed the plane,” Hardison said indignantly. “I can’t believe Nate still isn’t over that.”

Eliot rubbed Hardison’s back soothingly. “Nah, that’s not why. I was just seein’ if you remembered.”

Hardison pinched him and he snickered.

“Guess he just likes me better,” Eliot continued.

Then Parker pinched him hard and he yelped.

“Shh, I’m trying to sleep,” Parker said, voice muffled by the covers.

Eliot swallowed the rest of his giggles and yawned.

“‘Night,” Hardison said through a yawn, reaching over to rub Parker’s head clumsily.

“G’night pardners,” Eliot said in his heaviest Southern drawl, and fully expected the pinch from Parker that came next.

 

* * *

 

“Ah, Mr. Thiessen, welcome back,” Jackson Murphy, CEO of Right Sight Inc., called as Eliot walked into the cocktail party.

“Evening, Mr. Murphy,” he said when he made his way to the CEO’s side, feeling stupid in a turtleneck and blazer and not being able to do anything about it.

“I trust you found your new office to your liking?” Murphy asked with a grin full of perfect white teeth, and Eliot wanted to punch him right in his slimy mouth.

“I did, thank you,” he replied, swallowing the emotion. “Wonderful party, sir.”

“Well, thank you.” Murphy gestured to a waitress, who brought a tray of champagne flutes to them. She looked far too young to be here, especially with Murphy’s reputation, and she looked quietly terrified. “Thanks, Tiana. Now, Bryce, you need _anything_ tonight,” he winked, “you just ask Tiana.”

Eliot felt sick to his stomach, and grabbed a glass of champagne and lifted it to his lips to cover the glower that would otherwise have decorated his face. “Sure thing, Mr. Murphy.”

Murphy sent the waitress away, and she hightailed it to behind the bar, where Eliot saw her put down the tray and lean against the counter and take a few deep breaths. That settled it. They weren’t just taking Murphy’s money and company. He’d be lucky to get out of this one alive.

Eliot let the anger boil in the pit of his stomach and smiled innocently at Murphy, giving Parker the signal to come over behind his back.

“Now then, Mr. Murphy, I have a question for you regarding the company’s use of recycled eyeglass--”

“Mr. Thiessen, I was hoping I could get your signature on something,” Parker said, looking very uncomfortable in the heels Sophie had lent her but nevertheless playing her part.

“Ah, yes, um, Miss…?” Eliot asked, reaching out a hand as if absentmindedly grabbing Murphy’s elbow so he wouldn’t wander away.

“Kate. Kate Gibbs,” Parker said brightly, shaking Eliot’s hand.

“Miss Gibbs, um,” he turned to Murphy, who was suddenly sans ID card thanks to Hardison’s fourth successful lift in his life, “pardon me for just one second. I’ll be back to finish my question momentarily.”

He turned and walked away with Parker, and they heard Hardison swooping down on Murphy behind them.

“You’re good,” Parker whispered.

“Sophie’s been helping me out,” he whispered back. She nodded and brandished a clipboard to keep their cover.

“This guy gives me the creeps,” she said as he signed the clipboard.

“I’d like to rip his arms off,” Eliot said through his teeth.

“ _That-that’s not a good idea, sir_ ,” they heard Hardison say over the comms, talking to Murphy but really talking to them.

“Relax, I’m not gonna,” Eliot grumbled.

“ _Thank you, sir_ ,” Hardison said gratefully.

“--much,” Eliot finished, grinning into his champagne. 

**Author's Note:**

> edited to remove redundancy from "Feels Like Today" which was written later
> 
> Did anyone catch the classic literature reference? Ahahaha I crack myself up.


End file.
